


Disservice

by speakertone



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Troilus and Cressida - Shakespeare
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, based on the rsc production of troilus and cressida bc it Got me, the delivery... god, thersites is mentioned but really isnt Part of this mess, what else can i say patroclus is angry and achilles doesnt know why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakertone/pseuds/speakertone
Summary: “Have I upset you? Do not doubt that I love you more than any man.”“What of women?” Patroclus all but spits, startling Achilles, who takes a step back and puts his free hand in his pocket. The other stays out, guarding.“Women? You’ve women on your mind?”-There are no words to repair what Achilles doesn't know he's broken.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111





	Disservice

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based extremely specifically on the RSC production of Troilus and Cressida... the way they delivered the lines where Thersites calls Patroclus a "masculine whore" had Patroclus really start to doubt Achilles, who immediately comes out and is like "the woman I love said not to join the war so I guess I won't!", which is kind of the nail in his metaphorical (for now) coffin.

“Varlet,” Patroclus says to the open air, a hand pressed against his forehead while he lies on early morning dirt, damp with sweat and dew. He shifts, running his hands through his hair. “Masculine whore... Gods’ sake.”

The words rattle around in his brain like rocks in a bottle, and the pliant hands that once held it now violently shake it so that every rock is now another and it is impossible to tell which is which. Where does truth start and gossip end? The early morning sun nips at his skin and he covers his eyes. He shouldn’t dwell on this, he knows very well, what with weapons to polish and a war to fight, but Thersites’ mockery sticks deep and latches itself onto his brain- or it would be mockery if it weren’t true. But then, what can he say of the truth? Which of it is true? Can he know? He groans and rolls onto his side, staring bitterly at the soil stretching out in front of him.

Oh, the wickedness of circumstance! Had Thersites not teased, or Achilles received the letter even a day sooner, perhaps he wouldn’t be plagued with the worry and words of “varlet” and “whore”. What is said is not what is true, but if Achilles’ heart lies abroad with a princess, then what on earth is he doing with Patroclus? Doting on him, “oh, sweet Patroclus!”, running fingers through his hair, kissing him only when no soldiers are there to see. Why then, is Patroclus not simply a whore to him? He wrenches his eyes shut.

He is startled, when he opens them, by a pair of boots that approach, the pattern of footfall too familiar for comfort and, really, perhaps Patroclus should have sulked somewhere further away from their living quarters. He makes a jump to his feet and turns away, feigning importance and playing with the straps of his gloves.

“What,” he says, “come back from more important matters?” 

He can hear the frown in Achilles’ voice when he speaks. “More important? More important than you?”

“Of course.”

He hears the boots fall closer and a hand ghosts his waist, hesitant, leaving space for denial. When Patroclus steps out of range again, he turns to see Achilles, the frown he’d heard in his voice written in stone across his face. His hand lingers midair. “Have I upset you? Do not doubt that I love you more than any man.”

“What of women?” Patroclus all but spits, startling Achilles, who takes a step back and puts his free hand in his pocket. The other stays out, guarding.

“Women? You’ve women on your mind?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t understand the line of questioning,” Achilles says, and Patroclus snorts, half of a laugh, and combs his hair back with his fingers. Doesn’t understand the question? Perhaps the greatest of the Greeks, the warrior of all warriors, thinks with his spear more than his brain. He’s heard that somewhere before- Ulysses, maybe- but the humor in it doesn’t land soundly.

“What is there to misunderstand? Do you think of a woman? Or are you self-satisfied with, with putting your hands on me in her place?” He fumes now, still with his back turned, and starts to pace across the dirt. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? I had to learn by way of, of foolishness and you… you, you must have kept it from me. To… to keep me from learning the truth. That’s it, isn’t it?” He laughs. “Oh, swindlers, men, all! Soldiers think with their, with their… well!”

“Rumors?” Achilles says when Patroclus finally turns to face him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Patroclus challenges, raises an eyebrow in stern defiance- and were he not so lucky to be Achilles’ aid, he could have been exiled for such braizen disrespect in the face of a commanding soldier. “What rumors?”

“Are you deaf? Or do you loathe me enough to make me repeat it?”

“Loathe you? No, not at all… I don’t… what is this? What has foolishness told you?”

Deflection and confusion feign innocence in the stead of anger, anger that Patroclus knows he well deserves for backtalk and cruelty, but all in all, even not having heard the goings-on of the camp, there’s a likelihood of it all being fact. He stands his ground, digs his heel in, sets his jaw and looks up to meet Achilles’ eyes. 

“Thersites,” Patroclus begins, and Achilles’ sighs anew to interrupt, stepping forward. Patroclus holds up a hand to cut him off. “Has said to me something of, of... “ A breath. “The men around camp allege that I am your… your whore, as it were. And other such things. If it could be so.”

Achilles shakes his head. “What, and you believe them?”

“What reason have I not to? When you dote upon some, some princess-” (a word that he says like it bites him) “abroad, using me to, to make do? To satisfy? This is torture of the most wonderful kind, bliss unspoken and cruelty unknown. You make me sick.” He’s begun to cry but hardly notices, only wiping at his face with the palm of his hand when he feels a tear tickle the top of his lip. “You make me… you… disgrace me.”

“Sweet Patroclus-”

“Sweet?” He laughs. “Sweet, after all that? Sweet?”

A beat. He tries again. “Sweet Patroclus, these rumors are only that. Rumors. Do not be so sick at heart as to buy into them. It does you a disservice.”

“You of all people would know disservice,” Patroclus says, snide. “I will go. Those of us who bother to fight, those of us who care, we are busy with preparations.”

The frown returns as Patroclus brushes past Achilles, pushing by his massive shoulders to make his way across, and as he does Achilles makes to touch his shoulder, hand being shoved bitterly aside. “I care.”

“About?” 

“You.”

“Please,” Patroclus said, turning his back and walking away. “If only.”

\- 

Later, as Achilles lays down Patroclus’ body onto blood-drenched dirt, as Achilles smells iron and tastes salt, as he lays a hand across the corpse, afraid to touch it, stain it, break it, as he kisses what used to be Patroclus and is now his empty shell, he reflects on the morning, on dewey grass and being pushed away.

“What of women? What of women? What could I have said to please you?” Words fall flat and falter on icy skin. “More, you were more, you were… you were more… you were always more, always more.”

But the dead cannot hear. The dead cannot speak

“You were always more to me. I was dumb. I am dumb. Words cannot… words do not… Words… fail me…

Words fail you…”

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty short and written in a frenzy so I hope it's passable!


End file.
